


I know, I've tried

by magellean123



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Past Abuse, Set after Season One Finale, Sort of a character study, Suicide Attempt, fits in with canon, i'm mean to my characters, some might be ooc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:08:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25159006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magellean123/pseuds/magellean123
Summary: Grant Ward never believed in fairy-tales because no fairy godmother ever came to save him. In a world without heroes, though, there's a hell of a ton of villains."Coulson didn't tell you? I went through a... rough stretch."
Relationships: Grant Ward & John Garrett, Grant Ward & his demons
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	I know, I've tried

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote the first half of this at 1 a.m. with a pencil and a notebook, because plot bunnies don't care about sleep schedules. The characters might seem ooc, but I did my best (sorta). 
> 
> my favorite characters are the broken ones.
> 
> tw: multiple suicide attempts, suggested torture, suggested past abuse, self-hate, no happy ending
> 
> note: i've only seen the first episode of season two (i don't plan to finish watching it)
> 
> disclaimer: i don't own agents of shield :'(

On the first day that SHIELD had him in custody, Ward sat in silence on the ground, staring at the bars of his cell and not through them. He wanted a drink.

There were three guards standing by the cell door, and five others that he could hear at the end of the hallway. He wasn't the only prisoner there; there were six other cells, four of which held inmates wearing neon colors and brokenly sadistic smiles. The place reminded him all too much of juvie, so he kept his eyes closed and fingers pressed together and waited to wake up.

_Who are you? Make me believe._

_Grant Ward, Agent of SHIELD._

John would come back for him. He could be patient. 

On the fourth day that SHIELD had him in custody, after the guards finished beating him, Ward felt for his pulse and recited a poem in his head. It was a grounding technique, and it would help him pass time. His body was shaking. He could tell it wasn't from fatigue or from hunger or the cold. He didn't know why and didn't want to. He wanted Garret back. He wanted to be given an order and fulfill it, because thinking for himself was more painful than the guard’s fists and blades. He knew he could have fought back, but chose not to. 

_Is that a weakness?_

On the sixth day that SHIELD had him in custody, Ward realized that he hadn't been fed yet and wondered if they were going to starve him to death. He didn't care (really), but he was morbidly curious. There were tally marks neatly etched into the wall to his right, seventeen in total. Ward wondered if that inmate had starved to death. _Lucky bastard._

The guards were laughing outside his cell. One of them was louder than the rest.

(That night, he dreamed of his childhood. There was a man who was laughing, too, his fingers crawling across Ward’s body. When he woke up, he wished that the nails were in his head and not his foot. Anything to make the pain stop.)

When John comes for him, he'll kill the guards. Ward knows he will. 

On the ninth day that SHIELD had him in custody, he wasn't hungry or tired anymore. There was a soft white haze at the edge of his vision. His mind refused to let him go, showing him Thomas falling down the well, but then it was FitzSimmons and his fingers wouldn't move to throw the rope down.

_Selfish, selfish, selfish._

Coulson hadn't been to see him yet, and he told himself it didn't matter. His throat ached as he tried to scream; two guards held him down while a third pressed a red coal to his chest. Normally pain relaxed him - John's beatings were what cleansed him - but now he just wanted to sleep.

On the tenth day that SHIELD had him in custody, there was a voice similar to Coulson's cursing at the guards. Ward sat with his legs crossed and eyes closed and hands zip-tied to the bed frame without a mattress. He heard someone enter the cell, set something down, and leave. Someone else came in to untie him, muttering about larynx injuries and the blood stains on the floor. He didn't open his eyes until he was alone again. 

On the twelfth day that SHIELD had him in custody, Ward finally woke up and realized that Garret was never going to come rescue him, because he was dead. 

He spent the rest of the day wishing he could feel enough to grieve. 

_Is that a weakness?_

On the fourteenth day that SHIELD had him in custody, two armed men dressed in green hauled him to his feet and draped a bag over his head. Their hands reminded him of the crawling fingers, and he panicked and hit his head against the wall. His body ached, so he screamed until his ears rang and he was sure they were bleeding. He fell to the floor and woke up chained to a hospital bed with sheets. 

Coulson was there, staring at him without sympathy. 

Ward stared back

(Later, though, he would deny to himself that he ever panicked, until he believed his own lies. _I never panic_.) 

On the sixteenth day that SHIELD had him in custody, the same two guards dressed in green cuffed him to their belts and brought him down a hallway and through a door that read “VAULT D.” Briefly he wondered why there wasn't a bag over his head, but decided that he didn't care. He was shoved behind an invisible barrier and given a water bottle. 

Coulson finally came that day, while Ward was doing push-ups. The director sat in a metal chair and asked him questions that Ward couldn't hear over the buzzing in his ears. He considered saying something, but decided against it. Why bother? He didn't deserve to speak. John was dead and it was his fault. John would never speak again. 

When Coulson finally left, he sat down on the mattress and blanket (he refused to think of it as a bed) and studied the walls. They didn't have tally marks like his other cell did. They were made of stone, bland and rough. Ward decided he didn't like them.

On the seventeenth - or was it the eighteenth? - day that SHIELD had him in custody, Coulson came back, this time with a plastic tray holding food and no utensils. He set the tray down in front of the barrier and sat down in the chair. His face was passive, fingers tapping lazily on his leg, but Ward knew better. Coulson hated him, and he couldn't blame him. He hated himself too. 

"This is how it's going to work, Ward. You answer my questions, and I'll give you the food."

Ward blinked. He hadn't had food in… days. How many had it been now? Fifteen? Seventeen? A thousand?

Coulson cleared his throat, waiting for a reaction. "I don't have all day, and I certainly have more important things than you to take care of."

Ward considered talking for about half a second. He continued to stare at the ground, hands clasped together, throat still aching, wasting away instead of lying in a well-deserved grave. 

Coulson audibly sighed, more for Ward to hear it than exasperation, and snatched up the tray. He almost slammed the door behind him, but caught it.

As he watched Coulson’s retreating back, Ward realized that he wanted to die. 

_Who are you? Make me believe._

_Grant Ward, Agent of…_

That night, as he leaned against the wall, he felt something dig into his back and realized there was a button sewn into the back of his pants. Crawling onto the mattress, he yanked it off and scraped it against the wall without thinking. 

_Do it_ , whispered John's voice. _Do it, do it, do it, do it-_

Ward gritted his teeth and sat up. He pressed the button into his wrist until it bled, and then dragged it down, as hard as he could. It felt _good_.

He slit his other wrist, then brought the blanket up to his shoulders and closed his eyes. 

He was going to be at peace, finally. 

(After he passed out, more from exhaustion than the blood loss, red soaked through the thin sheet. He wasn’t awake to hear the guard shouting for help, didn’t hear Coulson’s silence as the director stared at his should-be corpse. He didn't know that May came to see him in the hospital this time, looking at him and wondering if there was anything she missed. He’s better off not knowing some things.)

* * *

On the twentieth day that SHIELD had him in custody, he woke up, blinking at the harsh while lights. There was a window to his left, and if he strained his neck he could see Coulson through it. _Am I in hell?_

He was in a different hospital bed than last time. From his thumbs to his elbows ran a tight white bandage, wrapped and secured by a thick metal chain. Did they really think he was going to try to escape? 

Sighing, he lay back and stared at the ceiling. He quickly realized he hadn’t died because he wasn’t in hell; hell didn’t have fluorescent lights, or smell like bleach.

Something began to beep, and he shut his eyes. He was alive. He wasn't supposed to be alive. He was supposed to be dead. John was dead. Ward could have saved John - he knows he could have. If only he had tried harder, pushed himself farther, run faster-

Someone who looked like a doctor came in and fiddled with a machine. The beeping stopped. Ward stared straight up, but he didn’t miss how the doctor somehow glared at him without even glancing in his direction. The doctor left, and Coulson came in, and _he_ was glaring at Ward. 

“What the hell do you want?” Coulson snapped. “Sympathy? Escape? Attention? Because you’re not getting any of those, Ward. There is no easy way out for you. I promised you pain, and I’m going to deliver.”

Ward chose not to dignify him with a response. 

Later that day he was dumped - literally - back into his cell. A guard came in, gave him a tray of food, and left. He didn’t want to eat, but he did without realizing it. Was he really becoming so weak? What happened to his will?

_Did I raise a man, or a pussy? Man up, son! You could be stronger than this! Work for it, fight for it! Fight Coulson, that self-righteous bastard. Fight them all! Avenge me!_

_You’re dead_ , Ward replied. 

* * *

Some days, hours, weeks, time later, Coulson came back with carefully blank emotions. “I’m here for intel,” he said, as though he expected it to make a difference. Ha.

Coulson tapped at a tablet and cleared his throat. “Are there any agents in SHIELD that you can identify as Hydra?”

No answer. 

“Are there any bases that you can identify as Hydra?”

No answer.

“Were you introduced into SHIELD as a mole, or did you decide to betray everyone after you pledged loyalty?”

No answer. _Damn_ , thought Ward, _hitting below the belt much?_

Half a dozen questions later, Coulson finally gave up and left, but not before promising another visit. And another, and another, and even more, but every time Ward never spoke a word. 

He stopped counting the days after that. It wasn’t making a difference. 

Eventually he was given a sheet of paper and a crayon to write with. _His throat might still hurt_ , he’d heard Coulson say to the guard at the door. _He might not be able to talk_. 

How thoughtful. 

Ward grabbed at the paper, folded it up, and jammed it into his wrists. It was messy and sloppy and stung like hell, but no one came to stop him so he didn’t. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to die anymore. Why was he doing this?

It was sickening, sometimes. Watching himself fall apart without Garrett, knowing he couldn't do a damn thing about it - couldn't care enough, anyway. 

Ward lay on the ground, panting. He clawed at the cuts in his wrist, his fingers growing sticky with blood that he spread over his arms and face. 

_Don’t most people leave suicide notes? I could have._

The door slammed open and three guards burst through. One swore at him while the other two opened the barrier and held him at gunpoint. He didn't bother to look up. 

He must have passed out without realizing it, because suddenly his eyes opened. Ward was still in his cell, but this time there was no mattress or blanket. His wrists were wrapped so tightly that they ached. 

_Well done_ , said John's voice. _You can’t even kill yourself pro_ _perly._

Occasionally they would knock him out with a gas, tie him to the bed frame, and let a doctor undo the bandages to make sure the cuts weren’t infected. He could’ve used that to count the days, but didn’t think of it.

On what was probably the forty-second day that SHIELD had him in custody (he decided to start counting again), Melinda May came to see him. Her eyes held a fury that he relished. 

"Stop trying to make us feel sorry for you," she spat. Her arms were crossed, fingers clenching at each other. "Don't think we're going to forgive you, either. You forfeited that privilege when you chose to follow a murderer. You’re going to rot away in here. Stop trying to escape. It’s not going to happen.”

She paused, waiting for her words to sink in. “Because of your refusal to talk to Coulson, I’m here to question you. And Ward, if it were up to me, you would be in torture right now.”

 _Duly noted_ , he almost replied. 

She asked him the same questions that Coulson always did (he had them memorized now), but she laced her words with venom. Ward appreciated how little she had changed, in spite of everything. Consistency was something he cherished. 

May only came twice. Ward marveled at how much smarter she was than Coulson, giving up on him so easily. She knew which battles were worth fighting.

Coulson came back on the fourth day after he failed to kill himself (again). He didn’t interrogate Ward this time, just sat there looking disappointed and angry. Ward wondered if Coulson was expecting him to talk first. Of course he wasn’t going to talk - he had nothing to say. 

Exactly thirty-seven hours later something inside of him fixed itself enough to break again. Later he thought of it as nothing more than snapping; Garrett had locked him up before, anyway. It never affected him quite like this (because back then he was more willing.)

Anger flashed through him, for the first time in Lord knew how long. He scrambled up from the thin mattress they gave back and slammed his fist into the wall. And again. And again. And _again_. He willed the blood to come, savoring the adrenaline rush. The pain was sweet, and each blow brought him back just a little bit more. 

His knuckles split open, but he didn’t notice. He was pounding at the wall now, slamming his whole body into it. He banged his head, hard, and paused. 

_Again!_

_John, please, it’s been fourteen hours-_

_Did I say this was going to be fun, boy? You wanna stay with me? You want me to dump you back with your family? I’ll haul your pathetic ass back there if you don’t stop whining. Is that what you want?_

_John-_

_Well? Are you a wimp?_

_No._

_Then listen. To. Me. And don’t question me again, ever, or I’ll beat you to a bloody pulp. It wasn’t fun the last time I did that, was it?_

_N-no, sir._

_Glad we sorted that out. Now hit that man again._

He brought his fists to his sides and ran at the wall, head first. He fell on the ground, got up, and did it again until he was sure his brain had exploded. Everything hurt. He couldn’t see or think. Everything hurt. Was he still alone?- Why was he alone?- Why wasn’t-?

Red pain slowly faded to white noise, and he gained consciousness but didn’t open his eyes. Maybe if he pretended he was still asleep he could stay that way.

_You’re growing soft_ , said Garrett. _Squishy. Weak. Fix this, Grant._

John only called him Grant when he was very pleased, or very mad. He always knew which one it was before. 

Now, he didn't know. 

He opened his eyes. Sleep didn’t seem so important anymore. 

* * *

A rational man would have realized by now that the universe probably wanted him alive if he wasn't dead yet, in spite of everything, but Grant Ward had yet to catch on.

He didn't see anybody but two doctors for three weeks. He spent that time memorizing the ceiling tiles in a med bay, listening to talk about concussions and possible mental instability. 

They had no idea who he was, why were they even trying? They weren't John. They didn't know him, didn't understand how he worked. 

He wasn't unstable. He was fine. He refused to listen. 

He was back in his cell a week later, and Coulson stopped visiting. No one came except for the guard with his bi-daily, tasteless food. He preferred it that way.

He started working out every morning, making himself wake up at the same time. Routines were good. Muscles were good. Telling himself that he'd escape eventually was good.

Time became a blur, but he still counted the days. 

On the seventy-third day that SHIELD had him in custody, he realized that if the team truly cared about him they would have at least asked what happened. Why he followed a psychopath like a beaten dog. He realized that Garret was a gaslighting S.O.B. but couldn't see what happened to him as abuse, even though logically it was. His mind was unable to comprehend it. _What a bunch of hypocrites._

He realized there was no escape, at least for the time being, but he could live with that. He had survived much worse. 

He realized that he had confused emotional numbness for missing John, and the team. Mostly Skye. 

He also realized that his views were likely biased. 

On the eighty-ninth day that SHIELD had him in custody, Coulson walked into his prison room with the air of a man who had everything to lose.

"Good morning, Ward," he greeted cheerfully. "Have you thought abou-"

"I'll talk to Skye."

* * *

-end-


End file.
